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iM^POETRY^^ 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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Shelf...H?..... 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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Poetry of the Gathered Years, 



POETRY OF 
THE GATHERED YEARS 



COMPILED BY , 

M. H. V. '^^ » 



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Before me, even as behind, 
God is, and all is well 

J. G. Whittike. 



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^ isOV 18 1892 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY 

1892 



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COPTEIGHT 

By A. C. McClurg and Co. 
A.D. 1892. 



I 



The compiler wishes to acknowledge the courtesy- 
shown by publishers in allowing her to use selections 
from their publications. Among those to whom she 
feels particularly grateful are : Messrs. Houghton, Mif- 
flin & Co., Boston, for permission to use selections from 
the works of J. G. Whittier, H. W. Longfellow, J. R. 
Lowell, J. T. Trowbridge, Alice Gary, Phoebe Gary, 
Lucy Larcom, and Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney; Messrs. 
Roberts Brothers, Boston, for selections by Helen Hunt 
Jackson ; Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, 
for selections from the works of Sidney Lanier and Julia 
G. R. Dorr ; Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., New York, for 
selections from the poems of W. C. Bryant and Fitz- 
Greene Halleck ; and Messrs. D. Lothrop Co., Boston, 
for a poem from " Through the Year with the Poets," 
by Samuel Longfellow, and also for a poem by Paul 
H. Hayne. By permission, selections have also been 
made from newspapers, as follows : from The Congre- 
gationalist, " Sunsetting," by Margaret Preston ; from 
The Independent, " A Legacy," by J. G. Whittier, " To 
J. G. Whittier," by W. H. Ward, and "In Old Age," 
by David Dudley Field. 



CONTENTS. 



INTRODUCTORY POEM. page 

The Soul's Youth . . Lucy Larcom . . . . 11 



SEPTEMBER —THIRTY-FIVE. 
September . , . . . Helen Hunt Jackson 
Thirty-five . . . . N. P. Willis . . . 
Thirty-five .... Lucy Larcom . . . 



Equinoctial .... Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney 21 

From Dawn to Noon . Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 23 

Incompleteness . . . Adelaide Procter ... 24 

Past Times .... Barry Cormuall ... 26 

The Past Barry Cornwall ... 28 

Loss AND Gain . . . Phoehe Cary .... 31 

Expectancy .... Helen Hunt Jackson . 35 

Sixteen Alice Cary .... 36 

Content Frances Ridley Haver gal 38 

A Sonnet James Russell Lowell . 43 



OCTOBER— TWO SCORE AND TEN. 

October Lucy Larcom . 

Two Score and Ten . /. T. Trowbridge 
An Autumn Thought . Edward C. Lefroy . 



15 
17 
19 



47 
51 
61 



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A Harvest Home . . Mary A. Barr . 
The Indian Summer . /. G. C. Brainard 
The Flight of Youth Hartley Coleridge 
An Anniversary . . Julia C. R. Dorr 
The Trance of Time . Cardinal Newman 
The Day of Life . . Hamilton Aide 
A Glance Behind the 

Curtain ..... James Russell Lowell 

Autumn Henry W. Longfelloiu 

The Hiver John Stuart Blackie . 



62 
64 
66 
67 
70 
73 

74 
75 

77 



NOVEMBER— THREE SCORE. 

Down to Sleep . . . Helen Hunt Jackson . 83 
Three Score Years . C. G. Harger, Jr. . . 85 

Twilight Fitz-Greene Halleck . . 87 

The Return of Youth William Cullen Bryant . 90 
Youth Renewed . . James Montgomery . . 93 
The Deserted Garden Elizabeth Barrett Browning 95 
Indian Summer . . . Samuel Longfellow . . 98 
Grow Not Old . . , Louisa J. Hall ... 99 
To Oliver Wendell 

Holmes James Russell Lowell . 100 

A Dedication . . . Alfred Tennyson . . . 101 
Age and Song . . . A. C. Swinburne . . . 102 

Sphinx James Russell Lowell . 104 

Hopes and Memories . Paul Hamilton Hayne . 107 



Contents. 



DECEMBER — SEVEN TIMES ELEVEN. 

December, the Clear 

Vision John G. Whittier . .111 

Seven Times Eleven . John W. Chadwick . .114 
Rabbi Ben Ezra . . Robert Broioning . .116 
The Golden Wedding Sidney Lanier . . . 129 

A Legacy John G. Whittier . .132 

To John G. Whittier . William Hayes Ward . 134 

Growing Old 137 

Burning Drift- Wood . John G. Whittier . . 140 

Parting Arthur Hugh Clough . 146 

SuNSETTiNG .... Margaret J. Preston . 149 

To Age Walter Savage Landor . 152 

In the Evening . . . Hamilton Aide . . . 154 
Onward and Heaven- 
ward Lady Nairn .... 155 

In Old Age .... David Dudley Field . 157 
Down the Slope . . Charlotte P. Hawes . . 159 
O Lay Thy Hand in 

Mine, Dear . . . Gerald Massey . . .161 
Old Age and Death . Edmund Waller . . . 163 
Light at Eventide . . Frances Ridley Havergal 164 



Life Anna L. Barhauld 

Parting Words . . . James Montgomery 



167 
168 



THE SOUL'S YOUTH. 

Spendthrift, sighing for lost youth. 
Sighs will not that waste restore; 

More the gain than loss, in sooth; 

Youth was something: life is more. 

Little our first glances saw — 
Eager, quick, unsatisfied, — 

Scorning heauty for its flaw, — 
Earth irreverently was eyed; 

Earth, whose onward paths we tread. 
Garden of the gods to-day; 

Light the years that hither led, 
Opening whither, none can say. 

Living now is worth the while; 

Time leaves treasures as he goes. 
Old Earth wears a sunset-smile — 

Flush of heaven's half-opened rose. 



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Eden-lore that childhood knew 

Fresh through life is whispered yet; 

Pearl-drops of perennial dew 
On the sheaves of age are set. 

Souls are younger than the skies; 

From the leal heart fades no truth. 
We grow old? ^Tis Death that dies; 

Our eternity is youth. 

Lucy Larcom. 



SEPTEMBER— THIRTY- FIVE 



Poetry of the Gathered Years. 



SEPTEMBER. 

Q GOLDEN month! How high thy gold is 

heaped ! 
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins 

strung 
On wands ; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue 
To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped 
In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped ; 
And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among 
The yellow gourds, which from the earth have 

wrung 
Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped 
The purple grape, — last thing to ripen, late 
By every reason of its precious cost. 
Heart, remember, vintages are lost 



16 Poettg of i^e (^atfimti g^atg. 

If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait. 
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate, 
Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost ! 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 



^Septmbtr— Cfjirtg^fiije, 17 



THIRTY-FIVE. 

" The years of a man's life are threescore and ten." 
Q WEAKY heart ! thou 'rt half-way home ! 

We stand on Life's meridian height — 
As far from childhood's morning come 

As to the grave's forgetful night. 
Give Youth and Hope a parting tear — 

Look onward with a placid brow — 
Hope promised but to bring us here, 

And Reason takes the guidance now ; — 
One backward look, — the last, — the last ! 
One silent tear — for Youth is past ! 

Who goes with Hope and Passion back ? 

Who comes with me and Memory on ? 
Oh, lonely looks the downward track — 

Joy's music hushed — Hope's roses gone ! 
To Pleasure and her giddy troop 

Farewell, without a sigh or tear ! 



18 PoEtrg of tfje (3ai])ztzti gears. 

But heart gives way and sj^irits droop, 

To think that Love may leave us here ! 
Have we no charm when Youth is flown — 
Midway to death left sad and lone ! 

Yet stay ! — as 't were a twilight star 

That sends its thread across the wave, 
I see a brightening light, from far, 

Steal down a path beyond the grave ! 
And now, — bless God ! its golden line 

Comes o'er — and lights my shadowy way, — 
And shows the dear hand clasped in mine ! 

But list ! what those sweet voices say ! 

The better land's in sight, 

Bless God for its pure light ! 

True love from life's midway's not driven ! 

Chief, hers whose clasped hand will bring thee on 

to Heaven. 

N.P. Willis. 



September — 2C]^irt2=fiije» 19 



THIETY-FIVE. 

HTHE sun hangs calm at summer's poise ; 

The earth lies bathed in shimmering noon, 
At rest from all her cheerful noise, 

With heart-strings silently in tune. 

A traveller through the noonday calm, 
Not weary, yet in love with rest, 

Glad of the air's refreshing balm. 

Stays where yon threshold waits a guest. 

Here at the half-way house of life, 

Upon these summer highlands raised, 

Her thoughts are quieted from strife, 
Peace grows wherever she has gazed. 

Thus on she looks with thoughts that sing 
Of happy months that follow June ; 



20 poetrg oi tje (gatStreti gears. 

Life were not a completed thing, 
Without its summer afternoon. 

The time to bless and to be blest, 

For gathering and bestowing fruit, 

When grapes are waiting to be pressed. 

And storms have fixed the trees' firm roots. 

The traveller girds her to depart ; 

She turns her towards the setting sun ; 
With morning's freshness in her heart, 

Her evening journey is begun. 

Lucy Larcom. 



^gptemfeer — 2r{)irtg=:Sij€. 21 



EQUINOCTIAL. 

'T'HE sun of life has crossed the line ; 

The summer-shine of lengthened light 
Faded and failed, till where I stand 

'T is equal day and equal night. 

One after one, as dwindling hours, 

Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, 
And soon may barely leave the gleam 

That coldly scores a winter's day. 

I am not young, I am not old ; 

The flush of morn, the sunset calm, 
Paling and deepening, each to each, 

Meet midway with a solemn charm. 

One side I see the summer fields 

Not yet disrobed of all their green ; 



22 Poetrg ot t!)£ (3Ki^cxzti gears. 

While westerly along the hills 

Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. 

Ah, middle point, where cloud and storm 
Make battle-ground of this, my life ! 

Where, even-matched, the night and day 
Wage round me their September strife ! 

I bow me to the threatening gale ; 

I know when that is overpast, 
Among the peaceful harvest days 

An Indian Summer comes at last ! 

Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 



September — 3rf}irt2=fiije, 23 



FROM DAW^N TO NOON. 

AS the child knows not if his mother's face 
Be fair; nor of his elders yet can deem 
What each most is ; but as of hill or stream 

At dawn, all glimmering life surrounds his place : 

Who yet, toward noon of his half-weary race, 
Pausing awhile beneath the high sun-beam 
And gazing steadily back, — as through a dream, 

In things long past new features now can trace, — 

Even so the thought that is at length full grown 
Turns back to note the sun-smit paths, all gray 

And marvellous once, where first it walked alone ; 
And haply doubts, amid the unblenching day. 
Which most or least impelled its onward way, — 

Those unknown things or these things overknown. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



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INCOMPLETENESS. 

IMOTHING resting in its own completeness 
Can have worth or beauty ; but alone 

Because it leads and tends to farther sweetness, 
Fuller, higher, deeper than its own. 

Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning, 
Gracious though it be, of her blue hours ; 

But is hidden in her tender leaning 

To the Summer's richer wealth of flowers. 

Dawn is fair, because the mists fade slowly 

Into Day, which floods the world with light; 

Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy 
Just because it ends in starry Night. 

Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow 
From strife, that in a far-off future lies ; 



And angel glances (veiled now by Life's sorrow) 
Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes. 

Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
Towards a truer, deeper Life above ; 

Human Love is sweetest when it leadeth 
To a more divine and perfect Love. 

Learn the mystery of Progression duly ; 

Do not call each glorious change Decay; 
But know we only hold our treasures truly, 

When it seems as if they passed away. 

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness; 

In that want their beauty lies ; they roll 
Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness, 

Bearing onward man's reluctant soul. 

Adelaide Procter. 



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PAST TIMES. 

r^LD Acquaintance, shall the nights 

You and I once talked together 
Be forgot like common things, — 
Like some dreary night that brings 
Naught, save foul weather? 

We were young, when you and I 

Talked of golden things together, — 

Of love and rhyme, of books and men ; 

Ah I our hearts were buoyant then 
As the wild-goose feather ! 

Twenty years have fled, we know. 

Bringing care and changing weather ; 
But hath the heart no backward flights, 
That we again may see those nights. 
And laugh together ? 



Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun, 

Renews the past year's mouldering feather ; 
Ah, why not you and I, then, soar 
From age to youth, — and dream once more 

Long nights together? 

Barry Cornwall. 



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THE PAST. 

"THIS common field, this little brook, — 
What is there hidden in these two. 

That I so often on them look, 

Of tener than on the heavens blue ? 

No beauty lies upon the field ; 

Small music doth the river yield; 

And yet I look and look again, 

With something of a pleasant pain. 

'T is thirty — can it be thirty years. 

Since last I stood upon this plank, 
Which o'er the brook its figure rears. 

And watched the pebbles as they sank? 
How white the stream ! I still remember 
Its margin glassed by hoar December, 
And how the sun fell on the snow ; 
Ah ! can it be so long ago ? 



It Cometh back ; — so blithe, so bright, 

It hurries to my eager ken. 
As though but one short winter's night 

Had darkened o'er the world since then. 
It is the same clear, dazzling scene ; — 
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green ; 
Perhaps the river's troubled voice 
Doth not so plainly say, — ' Rejoice.' 

Yet Nature surely never ranges. 

Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown; 
But, ever joyful, merely changes 

The primrose for the thistle-down. 
'T is we alone who, waxing old. 
Look on her with an aspect cold. 
Dissolve her in our burning tears, 
Or clothe her with the mists of years ! 

Then why should not the grass be green ? 
And why should not the river's song 



30 Prietrg at t!)e (gaftereti gears. 

Be merry, — as they both have been 

When I was here an urchin strong ? 
Ah, true, — too true ! I see the sun 
Through thirty winter years hath run, 
For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook, 
Usurp the urchin's laughing look ! 

So be it ! I have lost, — and won ! 

For once, the past was poor to me, — 
The future dim ; and though the sun 

Shed life and strength, and I was free, 
I felt not — knew no grateful pleasure ; 
All seemed but as the common measure ; 
But now, — the experienced spirit old 
Turns all the leaden past to gold ! 

Barry CornwalL 



^tpitmlzx — STJirtg^fibe. 31 



LOSS AND GAIN. 

T IFE grows better every day, 
If we live in deed and truth ; 

So I am not used to grieve 

For the vanished joys of youth. 

For though early hopes may die, 
Early dreams be rudely crossed ; 

Of the past we still can keej) 

Treasures more than we have lost. 

For if we but try to gain 

Life's best good and hold it fast. 
We grow very rich in love 

Ere our mortal days are past. 

Rich in golden stores of thought, 

Hopes that give us wealth untold; 



32 PjJetrg at t^z (BBif^mts gears* 

Rich in all sweet memories, 

That grow dearer, growing old. 

For when we have lived and loved, 
Tasted suffering and bliss, 

All the common things of life 
Have been sanctified by this. 

What my eyes behold to-day 

Of this good world is not all, 
Earth and sky are crowded full 
Of the beauties they recall. 

When I watch the sunset now. 

All its glories change and glow, 

I can see the light of suns 
That were faded long ago. 

When I look up to the stars, 
I find burning overhead 



September— Cf)irt2=filj£» 33 

All the stars that ever shone 

In the nights that now are dead. 

And a loving, tender word, 

Dropping from the lips of truth, 

Brings each dear remembered tone 
Echoing backward from my youth. 

When I meet a human face. 

Lit for me with light divine, 
I recall all loving eyes 

That have ever answered mine. 

Therefore, they who were my friends 
Never can be changed or old ; 

For the beauty of their youth 

Fond remembrance well can hold. 

And even they whose feet here crossed 
O'er the noiseless, calm abyss. 



34 Pfletrg of i\)t ^atfjereti gears. 

To the better shore which seemed 
Once so far away from this ; 

Are to me as dwelling now 

Just across a pleasant stream. 

Over which they come and go, 
As we journey in a dream. 

Phcebe Cary. 



^qjtemier — SCi^irtg^fibE. 35 



EXPECTANCY. 

pERPETUAL dawn makes glorious all hills ; 
Perpetual altar-feast sets fresh shew-bread ; 
Perpetual symphony swells overhead ; 
Perpetual revelation pours and fills 
For every eye and ear and soul which wills 
And waits, with will and waiting which are wed 
Into true harmony, like that which led 
The forces under which, with silent thrills, 
Earth's subtle life began. 

Ah, on the brink 
Of each new age of great eternity, I think, 
After the ages have all countless grown, 
Our souls will poise and launch with eager wing, 
Forgetting blessedness already known, 
In sweet impatience for God's next good thing. 
Helen Hunt Jackson. 



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SIXTEEN. 

C UPPOSE your hand with power supplied,- 
Say, would you slip it 'neath my hair, 

And turn it to the golden side 

Of sixteen years ? Suppose you dare ? 

And I stood here with smiling mouth, 

Red cheeks, and hands all softly white, 

Exceeding beautiful with youth. 

And that some sly, consenting sprite 

Brought dreams as bright as dreams can be, 
To keep the shadows from my brow, 

And plucked down hearts to pleasure me. 
As you would roses from a bough ; 

"What could I do then ? idly wear — 

While all my mates went in before — 

The bashful looks and golden hair 

Of sixteen years, and nothing more ! 



.SeptcmbEt — Wi)ixi^''Ubz. 37 



Nay, done with youth is my desire, 
To Time I give no false abuse, 

Experience is the marvellous fire 

That welds our knowledge into use. 

And all its fires of heart, or brain. 

Where purpose into power was wrought, 

I 'd bear, and gladly bear again. 

Rather than be put back one thought. 

So sigh no more, my gentle friend. 

That I have reached the time of day 

When white hairs come, and heart-beats send 
No blushes through the cheeks astray. 

For, could you mould my destiny 
As clay within your loving hand, 

I 'd leave my youth's sweet company. 
And suffer back to where I stand. 

Alice Cary. 



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CONTENT. 

t WHAT wouldst thou be?' 
A wavelet just rising from life's wide sea. 
I would I were once again a child, 
Like a laughing floweret on mountains wild ; 
In the fairy realms of fancy dwelling, 
The golden moments for sunbeams selling ; 
Ever counting on bright to-morrows, 
And knowing naught of unspoken sorrows. 

Such would I be, 
A sparkling cascade of untiring glee.' 

Not so, not so ! 
For longings change as the full years flow. 
When I had but taken a step or two 
From the fairy regions still in view ; 
While their playful breezes fanned me still 
At every pause on the steeper hill. 



And the blossoms showered from every shoot, 
Showered and fell, and yet no fruit, — 

It was grief and pain 
That I never could be a child again. 

Not so, not so ! 
Back to my life-dawn I would not go. 
A little is lost, but more is won. 
As the sterner work of the day is done. 
We forget that the troubles of childish days 
Were once gigantic in morning haze. 
There is less of fancy, but more of truth. 
For we lose the mists with the dew of youth ; 

And a rose is born 
On many a spray which seemed only thorn. 

Not so, not so ! 
WhUe the years of childhood glided slow, 
There was all to receive, and nothing to give ; 
Is it not better for others to live ? 



40 Poetry cf t!)e @atf)mti g^ars. 

And happier far than the merriest games 
Is the joy of our new and nobler aims ; 
Then fair fresh flowers, now lasting gems ; 
Then wreaths for a day, but now diadems. 

Forever to shine 
Bright in the radiance of Love Divine. 

Not so, not so ! 
I would not again be a child, I know ! 
But were it not pleasant again to stand 
On the border-line of that fairy land, — 
Feeling so buoyant and blithe and strong, 
Fearing no slip as we bound along. 
Halting at will in the sunshine to bask, 
Deeming the journey an easy task. 

While Courage and Hope 
Smooth with ' Come, see and conquer' each emerald 



Not so, not so ! 
Less leaping flame, but a deeper glow ! 



September — Ci^irtg^fibe. 41 

There is more of sorrow, but more of joy, 
Less glittering ore, but less alloy ; 
There is more of pain, but more of balm, 
And less of pleasure, but more of calm ; 
Many a hope all spent and dead, 
But higher and brighter hopes instead ; 

Less risked, more won; 
Less planned and dreamed, but perhaps more done. 

Not so, not so ! 
Not in stature and learning alone we grow. 
Though we no more look from year to year 
For power of mind more strong and clear. 
Though the table-land of life we tread, 
No widening view before us spread, 
No sunlit summits to lure ambition, 
But only the path of a daily mission, 

We would not turn 
Where the will-o'-the-wisp of our young dreams 
burn. 



42 Poetrg of tje (Batl^zxtH gtars. 

Then be it so ! 
For in better things we yet may grow. 
Onward and upward still our way, 
With the joy of progress from day to day ; 
Nearer and nearer every year 
To the visions and hopes most true and dear ; 
Children still of a Father's love, 
Children still of a home above ! 

Thus we look back, 
Without a sigh, o'er the lengthening track. 

Frances Ridley Havergal. 



SeptBtnfiet — CT[)irtg=fiije, 43 



A SONNET. 

"THINK not the Past is wise alone, 

For Yesterday knows nothing of the Best, 
And thou shalt love it only as the nest 

Whence glory-winged things to Heaven have flown. 

To the great Soul alone are all things known, 
Present and future are to her as past. 
While she in glorious madness doth forecast 

That perfect bud which seems a flower full-blown 

To each new Prophet, and yet always opes 
Fuller and fuller with each day and hour, 

Heartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes, 

And longings high and gushings of wide power. 

Yet never is or shall be fully blown 

Save in the forethought of the Eternal One. 

James Russell Lowell. 



OCTOBER— TWO SCORE AND TEN 



OCTOBER— TWO SCORE AND TEN. 



OCTOBER. 



CEPTEMBER days were green and fair, 
But sharp winds pierced the shining air, 
That froze the dimples of the river, 
And made the wayside blossom shiver. 

September's heart was winter-steeled ; 
The frost lay white upon the field, 
Day after day ; the northern blast 
Withered the bracken as it passed. 

' The time of snow ! ' we said. Not yet ! 
Flushed with suffusions of regret, 
Out of the south October came. 
Setting the forest's heart aflame. 



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Summer returned with her, and still 
She lingers with us ; stream and hill 
And wide fields waver like a dream, 
Through warm, soft mist and tender gleam. 

Again the gentian dares unfold 
Blue fringes closed against the cold ; 
Again, in mossy solitudes, 
The glimmering aster lights the woods. 

One mass of sunshine glows the beech ; 
Great oaks, in scarlet drapery, reach 
Across the crimson blackberry vine, 
Toward purple ash and sombre pine. 

The orange-tinted sassafras 
With quaintest foliage strews the grass ; 
Witch-hazel shakes her gold curls out, 
Mid the red maple's flying rout. 



O^cto&er— 3rijj0 Score anti €m. 49 



Our forests, that so lately stood 
Like any green familiar wood, 
Aladdin's fabulous tale repeat ; 
The trees drop jewels at our feet. 

With every day some splendor strange! 
With every hour some subtle change ! 
Of our plain world how could we guess 
Such miracles of loveliness ? 

Ah, let the green Septembers go ! 
They promise more than they bestow ; 
But now the earth around us seems 
Clad in the radiance of our dreams. 

Omen of joy to thee and me, 
Dear friends, may this rare season be t 
Lif e has not had its perfect test ; 
Our latest years may be our best. 
4 



Heaven's inmost warmth may wait us still, 
What if, beyond Time's autumn chill. 
There bless us, ere we hence depart, 
A glad October of the heart ! 

Lucy Larcom. 



O^ctokr— Ei»0 ^core anti tHzn, 51 



TWO SCORE AND TEN. 

A CROSS the sleepy, sun-barred atmosphere 
Of the pew- checkered, square old meeting- 
house, 

Through the high window, I could see and hear 
The far crows cawing in the forest boughs. 

The earnest preacher talked of Youth and Age : 
Life is a hook, whose lines are filling fast ; 

Each word a moment, every year a page, 

Till, leaf by leaf, we quickly turn the last. 

Even while he spoke, the sunshine's witness crept 
By many a fair and many a grizzled head, 

Some drooping heavily, as if they slept. 

Over the unspelled minutes as they sped. 



52 Poetry of tje (^attereti gears. 

A boy of twelve, with fancies fresh and strong, 
Who found the text no cushion of repose, 

Who deemed the shortest sermon far too long, 
My thoughts were in the tree-tops with the crows; 

Or farther still I soared, upon the back 

Of white clouds sailing in the shoreless blue, 

Till he recalled me from their dazzling track 

To the old meeting-house and high-backed pew. 

To eager childhood, as it turns the leaf, 

How long and bright the unread page appears ! 

But to the aged, looking hack, how brief, 

How brief the tale of half a hundred years ! 

Over the drowsy pews the preacher's word 

Resounded, as he paused to wipe his brows ; 

I seem to hear it now, as then I heard. 
Reechoing in the hollow meeting-house. 



Octahzt—^iaQ Score anU Ezn. 53 



Our youth is gone, and thick and thicker come 
The hoary years, like tempest-driven snows ; 

Flies fast, flies fast, life's wasting pendulum. 
And ever faster as it shorter grows. 

My mates sat wondering wearily the while 
How long before his Lastly would come in, 

Or glancing at the girls across the aisle, 
Or in some distant corner playing pin. 

But in that moment to my inward eyes 

A sudden window opened, and I caught 

Through dazzling rifts a glimpse of other skies, 
The dizzy deeps, the blue abyss of thought. 

Beside me sat my father, grave and gray, 

And old, so old, at two score years and ten ! 

I said, ' I will remember him this day. 
When / am fifty, if I live till then. 



54 PoEttg of tjje (gatjjereti gears. 

* I will remember all I see and hear, 

My very thoughts, and how life seems to me. 
This Sunday morning in my thirteenth year ; — 
How will it seem when I am old as he ? 

* What is the work that I shall find to do ? 

Shall I be worthy of his honored name ? 
Poor and obscure ? or will my dream come true, 
My secret dream of happiness and fame ? ' 

Ah me, the years betwixt that hour and this ! 

The ancient meeting-house has passed away. 
And in its place a modern edifice 

Invites the well-dressed worshipper to-day. 

With it have passed the well-remembered faces ; 

The old are gone, the boys are gray-haired men ; 
They too are scattered, strangers fill their places ; 

And here I am at two score years and ten ! 



O^ctotrer— ^TiDO ^mz anti €zn. 55 

How strangely, wandering here beside the sea, 
The voice of crows in yonder forest boughs, 

A cloud, a Sabbath bell, bring back to me 

That morning in the gaunt old meeting-house ! 

An oasis amid the desert years, 

That golden Sunday smiles as then it smiled ; 
I see the venerated head ; through tears 

I see myself, that far-off wondering child ! 

The pews, the preacher, and the whitewashed wall, 
An imaged book, with careless children turning 

Its awful pages, — I remember all ; 

My very thoughts, the questioning and yearning ; 

The haunting faith, the shadowy superstition, 
That I was somehow chosen, the special care 

Of Powers that led me through life's changeful vision, 
Spirits and Influences of earth and air. 



56 Poetrg of t!)£ (Hatjjereti gears. 

In curious pity of myself, grown wise, 

I think what then I was and dared to hope, 

And how my poor achievements satirize 

The boy's brave dream and happy horoscope. 

To see the future flushed with morning fire. 

Rosy with banners, bright with beckoning spears, 

Fresh fields inviting courage and desire, — 
This is the glory of our youthful years. 

To feel the pettiness of prizes won. 

With all our vast ambition ; to behold 

So much attempted and so little done, — 
This is the bitterness of growing old. 

Yet why repine ? Though soon we care no more 
For triumphs which, till won, appear so sweet, 

They serve their use, as toys held out before 
Beguiled our infancy to try its feet. 



©ctober — E'ixia &mxz anti Cen, 57 

Not in rewards, but in the strength to strive, 

The blessing lies, and new experience gained ; 

In daily duties done, hope kept alive, 

That Love and Thought are housed and enter- 
tained. 

So not in vain the struggle, though the prize 
Awaiting me was other than it seemed. 

My feet have missed the paths of Paradise, 

Yet life is even more blessed than I deemed. 

Riches I never sought, and have not found, 
And Fame has passed me with averted eye ; 

In creeks and bays my quiet voyage is bound, 
While the great world without goes surging by. 

No withering envy of another's lot. 

Nor nightmare of contention, plagues my rest ; 
For me alike what is and what is not. 

Both what I have and what I lack, are best. 



58 P0£tr2 at fte #at!jmti gears* 

A flower more sacred than far-seen success 
Perfumes my solitary path ; I find 

Sweet compensation in my humbleness, 

And reap the harvest of a tranquil mind. 

I keep some portion of my early dream ; 

Brokenly bright, like moonbeams on a river, 
It lights my life, a far elusive gleam, 

Moves as I move, and leads me on forever. 

Our earliest longings prophesy the man, 

Our fullest wisdom still enfolds the child ; 

And in my life I trace that larger plan 

Whereby at last all things are reconciled. 

The storm-clad years, the years that howl and hasten. 
The world, where simple faith soon grows 
estranged. 

Toil, passion, loss, all things that mold and chasten^ 
Still leave the inmost part of us unchanged. 



©ctciret— Srtuo &coxz antJ Cm. 59 

O boy of long ago, whose name I bear, 

Small self, half-hidden by the antique pew, 

Across the years I see you, sitting there. 
Wondering and gazing out into the blue ; 

And marvel at this sober, gray-haired man 

I am or seem ! How changed my days, how tame 

The wild, swift hopes with which my youth began ! 
Yet in my inmost self I am the same. 

The dreamy soul, too sensitive and shy. 

The brooding tenderness for bird and flower, 

The old, old wonder at the earth and sky, 

And sense of guidance by an Unseen Power, — 

These keep perpetual childhood in my heart. 

The peaks of age, that looked so bare and cold, 
Those peaks and I are still as far apart 

As in the years when fifty seemed so old. 



60 Pcetrg at tje (^atfjeretj gears. 

Age, that appeared far off a bourne at rest, 
Recedes as I advance ; the fount of joy- 
Rises perennial in my grateful breast ; 
And still, at fifty, I am but a boy. 

/. T. Trowbridge. 



©rtobet— STtofl ^taxz anti Cen. 61 



AJSr AUTUMN THOUGHT. 

TT was a calm October morn. The dell 
After a frosty night lay thick with brown 

Dead leaves. And still they stirred and fluttered 

down, 
Leaving a fringe against the sky, to tell 
Where once that sky had been invisible, 
Cloaked by their green luxuriance. And indeed 
Mine eyes could notice how the vault thus freed 
Grew bright and brighter for each leaf that fell. 
So cuts the frost which kills our summer vows, 
When shades of bliss we hoped eterne decay, 
And all our pleasant leaves are stripped away, 
We find what ampler view the frost allows. 
Through earthly damps we catch the heavenly day, 
And God's truth clearest under cold bare boughs. 
Edward Cracroft Lefroy. 



62 Poetrs of fte ^at^n^etJ gears. 



A HARVEST HOME. 

TT is not long since we with happy feet 

Stood ankle-deep in grasses, fresh and green ; 

While in the apple-blossoms, pink and sweet. 

The singing birds, with flashing wings, were seen. 

It is not long ago — not long ago — 

Since the glad winds ran through the tasselled 
corn ; 
This way and that way, swaying to and fro, 

The golden wheat waited the harvest morn. 

Now all the silent fields are brown and bare, 
And all the singing birds are gone away ; 

But peaceful calm is in the hazy air. 

And we, content, can watch the sweet decay. 



(dctohzx — 2riD0 Score anti ^zn, 63 



For so the hay is saved, the corn, the wheat, 
The honey from a thousand scented bowers, 

While russet apples, delicately sweet, 

Hang where once hung the pink-white apple 
flowers. 

So we in our life's autumn stilly muse 

Upon the harvest of our gathered years. 

Finding the hopes that once we feared to lose 
Grown perfect through our toil and love and 
tears. 

And saying, gratefully, ' Although their flower 
Was strangely fair and sweet, from cup to root, 

'T was best they changed with us from hour to hour. 
For better than the Blossom is — the Fruit.' 
Mary A. Barr. 



64 Poetrg of tje (gatjjmti gears. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

\A7HAT is there saddening in the autumn leaves ? 
Have they that ' green and yellow melancholy ' 
That the sweet poet spake of ? — Had he seen 
Our variegated woods, when first the frost 
Turns into beauty all October's charms, 
When the dread fever quits us, when the storms 
Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet. 
Have left the land, as the first deluge left it. 
With a bright bow of many colors hung 
Upon the forest tops, he had not sighed. 

The moon stays longest for the hunter now ; 
The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe 
And busy squirrel hoards his winter store ; 
While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along 



©ctofter— EtD0 ^cnre anti €zn. 65 

The bright blue sky above him, and that bends 
Magnificently all the forest's pride, 
Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, 
' What is there saddening in the autumn leaves ? ' 
John Gardner Calkins Brainard. 



66 pcetrg of tf)c (gatf)mtJ gears. 



THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH 

VOUTH, thou art fled, — but where are all the 

charms 
Which, though with thee they came, and passed 

with thee, 
Should leave a perfume and sweet memory 
Of what they have been ? — All thy boons and harms 
Have perished quite. — Thy oft renewed alarms 
Forsake the fluttering echo. — Smiles and tears 
Die on my cheek, or, petrified with years, 
Show the dull woe which no compassion warms. 
The mirth none shares. Yet could a wish, a thought, 
Unravel all the complex web of age, — 
Could all the characters that Time hath wrought 
Be clean effaced from my memorial page 
By one short word, the word I would not say ; — 
I thank my God, because my hairs are gray. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



(l^ctofcn: — 5Diij0 &taxz antJ STm, 67 



AJSr ANNIVERSARY. 

CO long, so short, 

So swift, so slow, 
A7'e the years of rnan 
As they come and go ! 

O love, it was so long ago ! 

So long, so long that we were young. 
And in the cloisters of our hearts 

Hope all her joy-bells rung ! 
So long, so long that since that hour 

Full half a lifetime hath gone by — 
How ran the days ere first we met, 

Beloved, thou and I ? 

We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawn 
Must still presage the rising sun, 



PflEtrg 0f tfje (3ai\)zxzti grars. 



And rose and crimson flush the east 

Ere day is well begun. 
We had our dreams, — fair shadowy wraiths 

That fled when Day's full splendor kissed 
Our soul's high places, and its winds 

Swept the vales clear of mist ! 

So long, so short, 

So swift, so slow, 
Are the years of man 

As they come and go ! 

O love, it was but yesterday ! 

Who said it was so long ago ? 
How many times the rose hath bloomed, 

Why should we care to know ? 
For it was just as sweet last June, 

As dewy fresh, as fair, as red. 
As when our first glad Eden knew 

The rare perfumes it shed ! 



a^dohzx — SEino Score antJ Cen. 



O love, it was but yesterday ! 

If yesterday is far away, 
As brightly on the hill-tops lies 

The sunshine of to-day. 
Sing thou, my soul ! heart, be glad ! 

circling years, fly swift or slow ! 
Your ripening harvest shall not fail, 

Nor Autumn's utmost glow ! 

Julia C. R. Dorr. 



70 Poetrg of tf)e (^atfjeteti gears. 



THE TRANCE OF TIME. 

TN childhood, when with eager eyes 
The season-measured year I viewed, 

All garbed in fairy guise, 

Pledged constancy of good. 

Spring sang of heaven ; the summer flowers 
Bade me gaze on, and did not fade ; 

Even suns o'er autumn's bowers 

Heard my strong wish, and staid. 

They came and went, the short-lived four ; 

Yet, as their varying dance they wove, 
To my young heart each bore 

Its own sure claim of love. 



©ctflfier — Eirro ^core anti S^en, 71 



Far different now ; — the whirling year 

Vainly my dizzy eyes pursue ; 
And its fair tints appear 

All blent in one dusk hue. 

Why dwell on rich autumnal lights, 

Spring-time, or winter's social ring ? 

Long days are fireside nights, 

Brown autumn is fresh spring. 

Then what this world to thee, my heart ? 

Its gifts nor feed thee nor can bless. 
Thou hast no owner's part 

In all its fleetingness. 

The flame, the storm, the quaking ground. 
Earth's joy, earth's terror, nought is thine, 

Thou must but hear the sound 
Of the still voice divine. 



72 Poetrg of tlje (3ut])txzti gears. 

O priceless art ! O princely state ! 

E'en while by sense of change opprest, 
Within to antedate 

Heaven's Age of fearless rest. 

Cardinal Newman. 



(j^ctflfccr — 2rto0 Score anti ^zn. 73 



THE DAY OF LIFE. 

r^AY of Life ! thine hours are fast advancing, 

Faster, one by one ! 
Brilliant hopes, like diamonds adorning 
Dewy meadows, disappear with morning 

'Neath the noon-day sun. 

Now the mid-day heat and passion burneth, 

May my arm be strong, 
To plough in Life's broad field beside my neighbor, 
Singing with cheerful heart that lightens labor, 

The old untiring song ! 

Cast me gently on the shore at evening, 

With the one I love ! 
May a sun-set golden calm surround us, 
Sliding into darkness, where it found us, 

Till the dawn above ! 

Hamilton Aide. 



74 Poetrg of tjje @atf}ereti gears. 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 

TN my warmer youth, 
Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, 
I had great dreams of mighty things to come : 
Of conquest; whether by the sword or pen, 
I knew not ; but some conquest I would have, 
Or else swift death ; now, wiser grown in years, 
I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings 
Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar 
In after time to win a starry throne ; 
And so I cherish them, for they were lots 
Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. 
Now will I draw them, since a man's right hand, 
A right hand guided by an earnest soul, 
With a true instinct, takes the golden prize 
From out a thousand blanks. 

James Russell Lowell. 



©ctflfter — Cijjo &caxz anti ^Ten* 75 



AUTUMN. 

\^ITH what a glory comes and goes the year 1 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; 
And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene, 
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods. 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird. 
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 



76 Poetrg of tf)e #at!jmti gears* 

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, 
Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch. 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, 
And merrily with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent ! 
For him the wind, aye, and the yellow leaves 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
Henry Wadswoj'th Longfellow. 



(Bttahet—Eiyjo Btaxz anti Ezn, 77 



tb:je eiver. 

AN ALLEGORY OF LIFE. 
I. 

CON of the mountain am I, 
Born 'twixt the Earth and the Sky, 
Where kindly cherished I lay 
In my cradle of soft mossy green, 
Looking with clear bright eye 
On the clouds that curtained the day, 
Floating in freakish display 
With cerulean glimpses between. 
Son of the mountain am I, 
Born 'twixt the Earth and the Sky, 
Where the old grey rocks stand out 
'Mid the tempest's revel and rout, 
Snorting with jagged old snout 

At the keen wind whistling by ; 
Where the eagle spreads his van. 
And the white-winged ptarmigan — 



78 Poetrg of t^e ^atfjereti gears* 

Fed by rich dews from the sky- 
There an infant of might I did lie. 

II. 
Young was I, and lusty-hearted, 
When first from the mountain I started, 

Down from the Ben's grey shoulders 

Over the old granite boulders, 

Scornful of rest and of ease. 
Eagerly running and leaping, 
Scooping the rocks with my sweeping, 

Tearing the roots of the trees ; 
Swelling with torrent big-breasted, 
Dashing with stream foamy-crested 
Mighty and masterful then ; 

Heaving and hurling. 

Whirling and swirling 
O'er the harsh roots of the Ben ; 

Foaming and bubbling, 

Winding and doubling 



O^ctober — 2r&j0 ^core antJ Een. 79 

Through the long stretch of the glen, 

So lusty was I, 

Son of Earth and of Sky, 
So proud of my potency then ! 

III. 
Now I am grown to a River, 

With measured and equable strain 
Rolling my waters, and never 

To toss and to tumble again, 
I am grown to a smooth-flooded River, 
The mighty and merciful Giver 

Of wealth to the sons of the plain. 
Through meadows and terraces pleasant 

In triumph of culture I ride, 
With the home of the peer and the peasant 

To bless the rich roll of my tide ; 
The firm-poised bridge I flow under, 

The f air-builded city I know. 
And spires, domes, and turrets, a wonder, 



Nod their pride in my glass as I go ; 
And high-tunnelled vessels are streaming 

With quick-eyed dispatch at my side, 
And millions are praising the River, 

As he regally rolls to the main, 
The mighty and merciful Giver 

Of wealth to the sons of the plain. 

John Stuart Blackie. 



NOVEMBER— THREE SCORE 



NOVEMBER— THREE SCORE. 



DOWN TO SLEEP. 

|\T OVEMBER woods are bare and still ; 
November days are clear and bright ; 
Each noon burns up the morning's chill ; 
The morning's snow is gone by night ; 
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, 
As through the woods I reverent creep, 
Watching all things lie ' down to sleep.' 

I never knew before what beds, 
Fragrant to smell and soft to touch, 
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads ; 
I never knew before how much 
Of human sound there is in such 
Low tones as through the forest sweep 
When all wild things lie ' down to sleep.' 



84 Poetrg at t!)e (^atfjeteti gears. 

Each day I find new coverlids 
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight; 
Sometimes the viewless mother bids 
Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight ; 
I hear their chorus of ' good night '; 
And half I smile, and half I weep. 
Listening while they lie ' down to sleep.' 

November woods are bare and still ; 
November days are bright and good ; 
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill ; 
Life's night rests feet which long have stood ; 
Some warm soft bed, in field or wood. 
The mother will not fail to keep, 
Where we can lay us ' down to sleep.' 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 



Ncbemtrer— Efjree Score. 85 



THREE SCOBE YEARS. 

AT twenty far, far up the height 
A Vision burst upon my sight. 

And starting forth with youthful zeal 
I bounded o'er the fields of Spring, 
With Strength my staff and Health my king. 

Nor saw the shadows downward steal. 

At forty, with more cautious steps, 

I journeyed through Temptation's depths — 

Above, the Vision day by day. 
Below, sweet Love stood by my side, 
Though thorns and briars multiplied 

And rest from care still far away. 

At sixty, toiling up the height. 
The mists roll by ; — clear to my sight 
Stands forth the Vision of my youth. 



Poetrg of tfje ^atjjewti gears* 



No more I stumble, fall or creep, 
God with me on this mountain steep 

Reveals the Presence and — 't is Truth. 



C. G. HargeVf Jr. 



Hflbemiet — Efjree ^core. 87 



TWILIGHT. 

"THERE is an evening twilight of the heart 

When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest, 
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, 

As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
'T is with a nameless feeling of regret 

We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
And fondly would we bid them linger yet. 

But Hope is round us with her angel lay, 
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; 
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early 
power. 

In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow ; 

Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin song 
Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe 

Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 



88 poetrg cf t\)z (gattereti gears. 



Life's little word of bliss was newly born ; 

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, 
Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, 

With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky. 
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, 
Like our own sorrows then, — as fleeting and as few. 

And manhood felt her sway too, — on the eye, 

Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, 
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, 

Its days of joy, its vigils of delight ; 
And though at times might lower the thunder- 
storm, 

And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form. 

The rainbow of the heart was hovering there. 
'T is in life's noontide she is nearest seen. 
Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of 
summer green. 



Nfl&emtier — SEfjree Score. 89 

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, 

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her 
now ; 
That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, 

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow ; 
That smile shall brighten the dim evening star 

That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart 
Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart ; 
The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, 
A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



90 P^etrg of i^z (?iatfj£t£ti gears* 



THE RETURN OF YOUTH. 

lyi Y friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime ; 

For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; 
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time 

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light, 
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong. 

And quick the thought that moved thy tongue 
to speak. 
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong 

Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. 

Thou lookest forward on the coming days. 

Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep ; 

A path thick-set with changes and decays, 

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ; 

And they who walked with thee in life's first stage 
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, 



Thou seest the sad companions of thy age — 
Dull love of rest, and weariness, and fear. 

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone. 

Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die ; 
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, 

Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky ; 
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wings and hides 

Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour ; 
Waits, like the vanish'd spring, that slumbering bides 

Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. 

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand 
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more 
sweet 

Than when at first he took thee by the hand. 

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. 

He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, 
Life's early glory to thine eyes again, 



92 ^OEtrs of tl}e (3ai\}zxzti gears. 

Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill 
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. 

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here. 

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails ? 
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear 

A gentle rustling of the morning gales ; 
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore. 

Of streams that water banks forever fair. 
And voices of the loved ones gone before, 

More musical in that celestial air ? 

William Cullen Bryant. 



Noliemijet — STfjree ^taxz. 93 



YOUTH RENEWED. 

CPRING flowers, spring birds, spring breezes 

Are felt, and heard, and seen ; 

Light trembling transport seizes 

My heart, — with sighs between ; 

These old enchantments fill the mind 

With scenes and seasons far behind ; 

Childhood, its smiles and tears, 

Youth with its flush of years. 

Its morning cloud and dewy prime. 

More exquisitely touched by Time. 

Fancies again are springing. 
Like May-flowers in the vales ; 
While hopes, long lost, are singing. 
From thorns, like nightingales ; 
And kindly spirits stir my blood, 
Like vernal airs that curl the flood ; 



94 Pottrg of t])z (^atijereti gears. 

There falls to manhood's lot 

A joy, which youth has not, 

A dream, more beautiful than truth, — 

Returning Spring renewing youth. 

Thus sweetly to surrender 
The present for the past ; 
In sprightly mood, yet tender. 
Life's burden down to cast, — 
This is to taste, from stage to stage, 
Youth in the lees refined by age ; 
Like wine well kept and long, 
Heady, nor harsh, nor strong. 
With every annual cuj), is quaffed 
A richer, purer, mellower draught. 

James Montgomery. 



Hoijember — tUl^xez ^corc. 95 



TSE DESERTED GARDEN. 

T MIND me in the days departed, 
How often underneath the sun 
With childless bounds I used to run 
To a garden long deserted. 

I called the place my wilderness, 
For no one entered there but I. 
The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, 
And passed it ne'ertheless. 

The trees were interwoven wild, 
And spread their boughs enough about 
To keep both sheep and shepherd out, 
But not a happy child. 

My childhood from my life is parted, 
My footstep from the moss, which drew 



Pottrg of tje (Satfjcreti gears. 



Its fairy circle round ; anew 
The garden is deserted. 

Another thrush may there rehearse 
The madrigals which sweetest are : 
No more for me ! myself afar 
Do sing a sadder verse. 

Ah me, ah me ! when erst I lay 
In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, 
I laughed unto myself and thought 
' The time will pass away.' 

And still I laughed and did not fear 
But that, whene'er was past away 
The childish time, some happier play 
My womanhood would cheer. 

I knew the time would pass away. 
And yet, beside the rose-tree wall. 



ll^oijember — Ef)tee ^toxz, 97 

Dear God, how seldom, if at all. 
Did I look up to pray ! 

The time is past ; and now that grows 
The cypress high among the trees. 
And I behold white sepulchres 
As well as the white rose, — 

When graver, meeker thoughts are given. 
And I have learnt to lift my face. 
Reminded how earth's greenest place 
The color draws from heaven, — 

It something saith for earthly pain, ; 

But more for heavenly promise free, j 

That I, who was, would shrink to be 
That happy child again. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



P^etrg ot i])z (iatjjereti gears. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

CUMMER is gone ; but summer days return ; 

The winds and frosts have stripped the wood- 
lands bare, 

Save for some clinging foliage here and there. 
Now as if, pitiful, her heart did yearn, 
Nature, the loving Mother, lifts her urn, 

And pours the stream of life to her spent child ; 

The desert air grows strangely soft and mild, 
And in his veins the long-fled ardors burn. 
So when are past the mid-years of our lives. 

And, sad or glad, we feel our work is done. 

There comes to us with sudden swift returns 
The glow, the thrill that show life still survives. 
That — though through softening mists — still shines 
the sun, 

And in our souls the Indian Summer burns. 
Samuel Longfellow. 



No&emier — W^xtz ^coxz, 99 



GBOW NOT OLD. 

jM EVER, my heart, wilt thou grow old ! 
My hair is white, my blood runs cold, 
And one by one my powers depart ; 
But youth sits smiling in my heart. 

Downhill the path of age ? Oh, no ! 
Up, up, with patient steps I go ; 
I watch the skies fast brightening there ; 
I breath a sweeter purer air. 

Beside my road small tasks spring up. 
Though but to hand the cooling cup, 
Speak the true word of hearty cheer. 
Tell the lone soul that God is near. 

Beat on, my heart, and grow not old ! 
And when thy pulses all are told. 
Let me, though working, loving still. 
Kneel as I meet my Father's will. 

Mrs. Louisa J. Hall. 



100 poetrg of tlje #aftmt( gears. 



TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

"\A7HAT has the Calendar to do 

With poets ? What Time's fruitless tooth 
With gay immortals such as you 

Whose years but emphasize your youth ? 

Nay, let the foolish records be 

That make believe you 're seventy-five ; 
You 're the old Wendell still to me, — 

And that 's the youngest man alive. 

James Russell Lowell. 



November — ^^nz =Score» 101 



A DEDICATION. 

P\EAR, near and true — no truer Time himself 
Can prove you, though he make you evermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall — take this, and pray that he, 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, 
May trust himself ; and spite of praise and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest night. 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a flower. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



102 POetrg of i\)z ^atl^ereti gears* 



AGU AND SONG. 

TN vain men tell us time can alter 
Old loves, or make old memories falter ; 

That with the old year the old year's life closes. 
The old dew stiU falls on the old sweet flowers, 
The old sun revives the new-fledged hours, 

The old summer rears the new-born roses. 

Much more a Muse that bears upon her 
Raiment and wreath and flower of honor, 

Gathered long since and long since woven, 
Fades not nor falls as falls the vernal 
Blossoms that bear no fruit eternal. 

By summer or winter charred or cloven. 

No time casts down, no time upraises. 
Such loves, such memories, and such praises, 
As need no grace of sun and shower. 



Nflijcmter — STfjree ^coxz, 103 

No saving screen from frost or thunder, 
To tend and house around and under 
The imperishable and fearless flower. 

Old thanks, old thoughts, old aspirations, 
Outlive men's lives and lives of nations. 

Dead, but for one thing which survives — 
The inalienable and unpriced treasure, 
The old joy of power, the old pride of pleasure. 

That lives in light above men's lives. 

A. C. Swinburne. 



104 Poetrg of t\)z (Hatfjereti gears* 



AA/HY mourn we for the golden prime 
When our young souls were kingly, strong and true? 

The soul is greater than all time, 
It changes not, but yet is ever new. 

But that the soul is noble, we 
Could never know what nobleness had been ; 

Be what ye dream ! and earth shall see 
A greater greatness than she e'er hath seen. 

The flower pines not to be fair, 
It never asketh to be sweet and dear, 

But gives itself to sun and air, 
And so is fresh and full from year to year. 

Nothing in Nature weeps its lot. 
Nothing, save man, abides in memory. 



l!(roli£tnibcr — ^\}xcz &coxz, 105 



Forgetful that the Past is what 
Ourselves may choose the coming time to be. 

All things are circular ; the Past 
Was given us to make the Future great ; 

And the void Future shall at last 
Be the strong rudder of an after fate. 

We sit beside the Sphinx of Life, 
We gaze into its void, unanswering eyes, 

And spend ourselves in idle strife 
To read the riddle of their mysteries. 

Arise ! be earnest and be strong ! 
The Sphinx's eyes shall suddenly grow clear, 

And speak as plain to thee ere long, 
As the dear maidens who hold thee most dear. 

The meaning of all things in us — 
Yea, in the lives we give our souls — doth lie ; 



106 poetrg of fte (^ai^zxtti gears* 

Make, then, their meaning glorious 
By such a life as need not fear to die ! 

There is no heart-beat in the day, 
Which bears a record of the smallest deed, 

But holds within its faith alway 
That which in doubt we vainly strive to read. 

One seed contains another seed, 
And that a third, and so for evermore ; 

And promise of as great a deed 
Lies folded in the deed that went before. 

So ask not fitting space or time, 
Yet could not dream of things which could not be ; 

Each day shall make the next sublime. 
And Time be swallowed in Eternity. 

James Russell Lowell. 



I^otj£mi0r — W^xzt Score, 107 



HOPES AND MEMORIES. 

/^UR hopes in youth are like those roseate shadows 
Cast by sunlight on the dewy grass 
When first the fair morn opes her sapphire eyes ; 
They seem gigantic and yet graceful shades, 
Touched with bright color. As our sun of life 
Rises toward meridian, less and less 
Grow the bright tremulous shadows, till at last. 
In the hot dust and noon-tide of our day. 
They glimmer to blank nothingness. Again 
That grand climacteric passed, the shadows gleam 
Bright still, perchance (if our past deeds be pure ), — 
Bright still, hut all reversed ! Eastward they point, 
Lengthening and lengthening ever toward the dawn ; 
For hopes have then grown memories, whosestrange 

life 
Deepens and deepens as the sunset dies. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



DECEMBER— SEVEN TIMES ELEVEN 



DECEMBER— SEVEN TIMES ELEVEN. 



DECEMBER, THE CLEAR VISION. 

T DID but dream. I never knew 

What charms our sternest season wore. 

Was never yet the sky so blue, 

Was never earth so white before. 

Till now I never saw the glow 

Of sunset on yon hills of snow. 

And never learned the bough's designs 

Of beauty in its leafless lines. 

Did ever such a morning break 

As that my eastern windows see ? 

Did ever such a moonlight take 

Weird photographs of shrub and tree ? 

Rang ever bells so wild and fleet 

The music of the winter street ? 



112 PoEtrg of tje (gat^etB^ gears. 

Was ever yet a sound by half 

So merry as yon school-boy's laugh ? 

Earth! with gladness overfraught, 

No added charm thy face hath found ; 
Within my heart the change is wrought, 

My footsteps make enchanted ground. 
From couch of pain and curtained room 
Forth to thy light and air I come, 
To find in all that meets my eyes 
The freshness of a glad surprise. 

Fair seem these winter days, and soon 

Shall blow the warm west winds of spring 
To set the unbound rills in tune 

And hither urge the bluebird's wing. 
The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods 
Grow misty green with leafing buds. 
And violets and wind-flowers sway, 
Against the throbbing heart of May. 



^zczmhzx — &zbzn Cimes lEle&en. 113 



Break forth, my lij)s, in praise and own 

The wiser love severely kind ; 
Since, richer for its chastening grown, 

I see, whereas I once was blind. 
The world, Father ! hath not wronged 
With loss the life by thee prolonged ; 
But still, with every added year. 
More beautiful thy works appear ! 

As thou hast made thy world without, 

Make thou more fair my world within; 

Shine through its lingering clouds of doubt ; 
K-ebuke its haunting shapes of sin ; 

Fill, brief, or long, my granted span 

Of life with love to thee and man ; 

Strike when thou wilt the hour of rest, 

But let my last days be my best ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



114 Poetrg of t\}z (3at])mti gtars* 



SEVEN TIMES ELEVEN. 

CROM seven times one the tender song went on 
To seven times seven, and there made end ; 

But so, thank God, it has not been with thee 

And thy good years, O dear and blessed friend ! 

Thy seven times eight had past ere first I knew 
The kindly welcome of thy pleasant face ; 

Thy seven times nine beheld thee full of years. 
But yet more full of gentleness and grace. 

Then came the goal, — the threescore years and ten ; 

Still sang thy heart its sweet and natural song ; 
' Labor and sorrow ? ' Nay to thee I deem 

Labor and joy forevermore belong. 

For thou hast ever found thy sweetest joy 
In simple tasks of love and friendliness ; 



^tctmhtx — ^zhzn Cimes lEleben, 115 

Finding, like one to me forever dear, 

That naught is easier than to cheer and bless. 

And so thy seven times eleven comes 

And finds thee laboring and loving still ; 

Striving, ere yet the day is wholly done, 
To fit thy task yet closer to His will. 

Work on, love on, in sorrow yet in joy ; 

Another song of seven live to sing 
Ere, life well spent, thy winter turn at last 

To sudden freshness like this month of spring. 
John W. Chadwick. 



116 Pijettg of t]}z (gatfjmtJ gears. 



BABBI BEN EZRA. 

QROW old along with me ! 
The best is yet to be, 

The last of life, for which the first was made ; 
Our times are in His hand 
Who saith, * A whole I planned, 
Youth shows but half ; trust God ; see all, nor be 
afraid ! ' 

Not that, amassing flowers. 
Youth sighed, ' Which rose make ours. 
Which lily leave and then as best recall ! ' 
Not that, admiring stars. 
It yearned, ' Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 
Mine be some figured flame which blends, trans- 
cends them all ! ' 



^etzvxbzx — &zbzn ^imcs ^Izhzn. 117 

Not for such hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years, 

Do I remonstrate ; folly wide the mark ! 

Rather I prize the doubt 

Low kinds exist without, 

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 
Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast. 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men ; 

Irks care the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt the maw- 
crammed beast ? 

Rejoice we are allied 

To That which doth provide 

And not partake, effect and not receive ! 



118 Poetrg at tj)£ (^Ril^zxzti geats. 

A spark disturbs our clod ; 
Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must 
believe. 

Then, welcome each rebuff 
That turns earth's smoothness rough. 
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 
Be our joys three parts pain ! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge 
the throe ! 

For thence, — a parodox 

Which comforts while it mocks, — 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail ; 

What I aspired to be, 

And was not, comforts me ; 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink 

i' the scale. 



IBeamijet — ^ebm Cimes iSlcijm. 119 

What is he but a brute 
Whose flesh hath soul to suit, 
Whose spirit works lest arm and legs want play ? 
To man, propose this test — 
Thy body at its best. 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone 
way? 

Yet gifts should prove their use ; 
I own the Past profuse 
Of power each side, perfection every turn ; 
Eyes, ears took in their dole, 
Brain treasured up the whole ; 

Should not the heart beat once, ' How good to live 
and learn ? ' 

Not once beat ' Praise be thine ! 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw power, see now love perfect too. 



120 Poetrs oi tfje (gatfjcreti gears* 

Perfect I call thy plan ; 
Thanks that I was a man ! 

Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what Thou 
shalt do ! ' 

For pleasant is this flesh ; 
Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest ; 
Would we some prize might hold 
To match those manifold 

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did 
best ! 

Let us not always say 
' Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole I' 
As the bird wings and sings. 
Let us cry 'All good things 

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now than flesh 
helps soul I ' 



JBecember — Sebm Eimes ISleijen. 121 



Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage, 

Life's struggle having so far reached its turn 

Thence shall I pass, approved 

A man, for aye removed 

From the developed brute ; a God tho' in the germ. 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new ; 

Fearless and unperplexed, 

When I wage battle next. 

What weapons to select, what ai-mor to indue. 

Youth ended, I shall try 

My gain or loss thereby ; 

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold ; 

And I shall weigh the same. 

Give life its praise or blame ; 

Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, being old. 



122 poetrg of i^z (3ui]}extii g^ats. 

For, note when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory from the gray ; 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots — ' Add this to the rest, 

Take it and try its worth ; here dies another day/ 

So, still within this life, 

Though lifted o'er its strife. 

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 

' This rage was right i' the main. 

That acquiescence vain ; 

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past/ 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day ; 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 



©ecem&er — S^zhen 2Eitnes lElebm. 123 



As it was better, youth 
Should strive, through acts uncouth. 
Toward making, than repose on aught found made ; 
So, better, age, exempt 
From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further, Thou waitedst age ! Wait death, nor be 
afraid ! 

Enough now, if the Right 
And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, 
With knowledge absolute, 
Subject to no dispute 

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel 
alone. 

Be thee, for once and all, 
Severed great minds from small, 
Announced to each his station in the Past ! 



124 Poetry of t^z (gatj^treti gears* 

Was I, the world arraigned, 
Were they, my soul disdained, 
Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us peace 
at last ! 

Now who shall arbitrate ? 
Ten men love what I hate, 
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive ; 
Ten, who in ears and eyes 
Match me ; we all surmise. 

They, this thing, and I, that ; whom shall my soul 
believe ? 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called ' work ' must sentence pass. 

Things done that took the eye and had the price ; 

O'er which, from level stand. 

The low world laid its hand. 

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice ; 



IBzczmhex — &zhm Ctmes ISleben. 125 

But all the world's coarse thumb 
And finger failed to plumb, 
So passed in making up the main account ; 
All instincts immature, 
All purposes unsure, 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's 
amount ; 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act, 

Fancies that broke through language and escaped ; 

All I could never be. 

All, men ignored in me, 

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher 



Aye, note that Potter's wheel. 

That metaphor ! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,- 



126 Poetrg of t^e (^atfjereti gears. 

Thou to whom fools propound, 
When the wine makes its round, 
' Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past gone, seize 
to-day ! ' 

Fool ! All that is, at all, 
Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure ; 
What entered into thee. 
That was, is, and shall be ; 

Time's wheel runs back or stops ; Potter and clay 
endure. 

He fixed thee mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance. 

This Present, Thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest ; 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent, 

Try thee, and turn thee forth sufficiently impressed. 



HBtctmhet — SSzijtn Cfmes lEIe&en» 127 

What though the earlier grooves 

Which ran the laughing loves 

Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? 

What though, about thy rim, 

Skull things in order grim 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress ? 

Look not thou down but up ! 
To uses of a cup, 

The festal board, lamp's flash, and trumpet's peal. 
The new wine's foaming flow 
The Master's lips aglow ! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou 
with earth's wheel ? 

But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who mouldest men ! 

And since, not even while the whirl was worst. 



128 Pcrettg of tjje (Satfjereti gears. 

Did I, — to the wheel of life 
With shapes and colors rife, 

Bound dizzily, — mistake my end, to slake Thy 
thirst ; 

So, take and use Thy work, 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim ! 

My times be in Thy hand! 

Perfect the cup as planned ! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the 

same ! 

Robert Browning. 



HBzamhzx — ^zhzn Citnes lEkben. 129 



TRU GOLDEN WEDDING. 

BY THE ELDEST GRANDSON. 

A RAINBOW span of fifty years, 
Painted upon a cloud of tears, 
In blue for hopes and red for fears, 

Finds end in a golden hour to-day. 
Ah, you to our childhood the legend told, 
* At the end of the rainbow lies the gold,' 
And now in our thrilling hearts we hold 
The gold that will never pass away 

Gold crushed from the quartz of a crystal life, 
Gold hammered with blows of human strife. 
Gold burnt in the love of man and wife. 

Till it is pure as the very flame ; 
Gold that the miser will not have. 
Gold that is good beyond the grave, 
Gold that the patient and the brave 

Amass, neglecting praise and blame. 



130 Poetry at tjje ^atijmtJ gears. 

O golden hour that caps the time 

Since, heart to heart like rhyme to rhyme, 

You stood and listened to the chime 

Of inner bells by spirits rung. 
That tinkled many a secret sweet 
Concerning how two souls should meet, 
And whispered of Time's flying feet 

With a most piquant silver tongue. 

golden day, — a golden crown 

For the kingly heads that bowed not down 

To win a smile or 'scape a frown, 

Except the smile and frown of Heaven ! 
Dear heads, still dark with raven hair ; 
Dear hearts, still white in spite of care ; 
Dear eyes, still black and bright and fair 

As any eyes to mortals given ! 

Old parents of a restless race. 
You miss full many a bonny face 



©ecemiier — ^zhzxi Ctmes lElebcn. 131 

That would have smiled a filial grace 
Around your Golden Wedding wine. 

But God is good and God is great, 

His will be done, if soon or late, 

Your dead stand happy in yon Gate 

And call you blessed while they shine. 

So, drop the tear and dry the eyes. 
Your rainbow glitters in the skies. 
Here's golden wine; young, old, arise; 

With cups as full as our souls, we say : 
' Two Hearts, that wrought with smiles thro' tears 
This rainbow span of fifty years. 
Behold how true, true love appears 

True gold for your Golden Wedding day ! ' 
Sidney Lanier. 



132 PtTBtrg of tf)e (3ui])tx£ti gearg. 



A LEGACY. 

URIEND of my many years ! 
When the great silence falls, at last, on me^ 
Let me not leave to pain and sadden thee 

A memory of tears, 

But pleasant thoughts alone 
Of one who was thy friendship's honored guest 
And drank the wine of consolation pressed 

From sorrows of thy own. 

I leave with thee a sense 
Of hands upheld and trials rendered less — 
The unselfish joy which is to helpfulness 

Its own great recompense ; 

The knowledge that from thine. 
As from the garments of the Master, stole 



©mmber — ^zbzn 2Cimes iEkiien. 133 

Calmness and strength, the virtue which makes whole 
And heals without a sign ; 

Yea, more, the assurance strong 
That love, which fails of perfect utterance here, 
Lives on to fill the heavenly atmosphere 

With its immortal song. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

{In " The Independent,''^) 



134 Poetrs at tfje (gatftereti gears. 



TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

P\EAR singer of our fathers' day, 

Who lingerest in the sunset glow, 
Our grateful hearts all bid thee stay ; 

Bend hitherward and do not go. 
Gracious thine age ; thy youth was strong, 

For Freedom touched thy tongue with fire ; 
To sing the right and fight the wrong 

Thine equal hand held bow or lyre. 
O linger, linger long, 
Singer of song. 

We beg thee stay ; thy comrade star 

Which later rose is earlier set ; 
What music and what battle scar 

When side by side the fray ye met ! 
Thy trumpet and his drum and fife 

Gave saucy challenge to the foe 



©ecKm&er— .Setjen ^mz& iSlebm. 135 

In Liberty's heroic strife ; 

We mourn for him, thou must not go ! 
Yet linger, linger long, 
Singer of song. 

We cannot yield thee ; only thou 

Art left to us, and one beside 
Whose silvered wisdom still can show 

How smiles and tears together bide. 
And we would bring our boys to thee, 

And bid them hold in memory crowned 
That they our saintliest bard did see, 

The Galahad of our table round. 
Then linger, linger long. 
Singer of song. 

The night is dark ; three radiant beams 
Are gone that crossed the zenith sky ; 

For one the waterfowl, meseems, 

For two the Elmwood herons cry. 



136 P^etrg of tje (gat})£retJ gears* 

Ye twain that early rose and still 
Skirt low the level west along, 
Sink when ye must, to rise and fill 

The morrow's east with light and song. 
But linger, linger long, 
Singer of song. 

William Hayes Ward. 

{In " The Independent.'''') 



©ecember — Seben ^imm lEle&m. 137 



GROWING OLD. 

COFTLY, oh softly, the years have swept by thee, 

Touching thee lightly, with tenderest care ; 
Sorrow and death they have often brought nigh thee. 
Yet they have left thee but beauty to wear ; 
Growing old gracefully, 
Gracefully fair. 

Far from the storms that are lashing the ocean, 
Nearer each day to the pleasant Home-light ; 
Far from the waves that are big with commotion, 
Under full sail, and the harbor in sight ; 
Growing old cheerfully. 
Cheerful and bright. 

Past all the winds that were adverse and chilling. 
Past all the islands that lured thee to rest. 



138 P^retrg af i]}Z (3Ki\izxzti gEars* 



Past all the currents that lured thee unwilling, 
Far from thy course to the Land of the Blest : 
Growing old peacefully, 
Peaceful and blest. 

Never a feeling of envy nor sorrow 

When the bright faces of children are seen ; 
Never a year from the young wouldst thou borrow — 
Thou dost remember what lieth between ; 
Growing old willingly, 
Thankful, serene. 

E-ich in experience that angels might covet, 

Rich in a faith that hath grown with each year, 
Rich in a love that grew from and above it, 

Soothing thy sorrows and hushing each fear ; 
Growing old wealthily, 
Loving and dear. 



Wzzemhzt — Se&m Eimes lEIeben. 139 

Hearts at the sound of thy coming are lightened, 

Ready and willing thy hand to relieve ; 
Many a face at thy kind word has brightened — 
It is more blessed to give than receive. 
Growing old happily, 
Ceasing to grieve. 

Eyes that grow dim to the earth and its glory, 

Have a sweet recompense youth can not know ; 
Ears that grow dull to the world and its story 
Drink in the songs that from Paradise flow ; 
Growing old graciously, 
Purer than snow. 



140 poetrg of tfje (3Ktf}zxzii gearg. 



BURNING DRIFT-WOOD. 

gEFORE my drift-wood fire I sit, 
And see, with every waif I burn, 

Old dreams and fancies coloring it. 
And folly's unlaid ghosts return. 

O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleft 
The enchanted sea on which they sailed. 

Are these poor fragments only left 

Of vain desires and hopes that failed ? 

Did I not watch from them the light 
Of sunset on my towers of Spain, 

And see, far off, uploom in sight. 

The Happy Isles I might not gain ? 

Did sudden lift of fog reveal 

Arcadia's vales of song and Spring, 



29ecemft£t — ^zhm VLimz& lEleben, 141 

And did I pass, with grazing keel, 

The rocks whereon the sirens sing ? 

Have I not drifted hard upon 

The unmapped regions lost to man, 

The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John, 
The palace domes of Kubla Khan ? 

Did land winds blow from jasmin flowers, 
Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills? 

Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers, 
And Gold from Eldorado's hills ? 

Alas ! the gallant ships, that sailed 
On blind Adventure's errand sent, 

Howe'er they laid their courses, failed 
To reach the haven of Content. 

And of my ventures, those alone 

Which Love had freighted, safely sped ; 



142 Poetrg of tje (gatjimti gears. 

Seeking a good beyond my own, 
By clear-eyed Duty piloted. 

mariners, hoping still to meet 

The luck Arabian voyagers met, 
And find in Bagdad's moon-lit street 
Haroun al Raschid walking yet ! 

Take with you on your Sea of Dreams, 
The fair, fond fancies dear to youth ; 

1 turn from all that only seems, 

And seek the sober grounds of truth. 

What matter that it is not May, 

That birds have flown, and trees are bare ; 
That darker grows the shortening day, 

And colder blows the wintry air ! 

The wrecks of passion and desire, 
The castles I no more rebuild, — 



^ztzmhtx — ^zhzn Citnes iSkbm. 143 



May fitly feed my drift-wood fire, 

And warm the hands that age has chilled. 

Whatever perished with my ships, 

I only know the best remains ; 
A song of praise is on my lips 

For losses which are now my gains. 

Heap high my hearth ! No worth is lost ; 

No wisdom with the folly dies. 
Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust 

Shall be my evening sacrifice ! 

Far more than all I dared to dream, 
Unsought before my door I see ; 

On wings of fire and steeds of steam 

The world's great wonders come to me. 

And holier signs, unmarked before, 

Of Love to seek and Power to save, — 



144 Poetrg erf t}je (iatj^ereti gears* 

The righting of the wronged and poor, 
The man evolving from the slave. 

And life, no longer chance or fate. 
Safe in the gracious Fatherhood, 

I fold o'er-wearied hands and wait, 
In calm assurance of the good. 

And well the waiting time must be. 

Though brief or long its granted days, 

If Faith and Hope and Charity 

Sit by my evening hearth-fire's blaze. 

And with them, friends whom Heaven has spared, 
Whose love my heart has comforted ; 

And sharing all my joys, has shared 
My tender memories of the dead. — 

Dear souls who left us lonely here. 

Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom 



29ecemkr — ^zhm ^mt& lEIefaen, 145 

We, day by day, are drawing near 

Where every bark has sailing room. 

I know the solemn monotone 

Of waters calling unto me ; 
I know from whence the airs have blown 

That whisper of the Eternal Sea. 

As low my fires of drift-wood burn, 

I hear that sea's deep sounds increase ; 

And fair in sunset light, discern 
Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

{In " The Independent.^^) 



146 Poettg of t\}z (3ai]}txzti gears. 



PAETING. 

r\ TELL me, friends, while yet we part, 
And heart can yet be heard of heart, 
tell me then, for what is it 
Our early plan of life we quit ; 
From all our own intentions range, 
And why does all so wholly change ? 
tell me, friends, while yet we part ! 

O tell me, friends, while yet we part, — 
The rays that from the centre start 
Within the orb of one warm sun. 
Unless I err, have once begun, — 
Why is it thus they still diverge ? 
And whither tends the course they urge ? 
tell me friends, while yet we part ! 



Wztzmhtx — ^thtn Cimes iSle&en. 147 

O tell me, friends, while yet ye hear, — 
May it not be, some coming year, 
These ancient paths that here divide, 
Shall yet again run side by side. 
And you from there, and I from here, 
All on a sudden reappear ? 
O tell me, friends, while yet ye hear ! 

O tell me, friends, ye hardly hear, — 

And if indeed ye did, I fear 

Ye would not say, ye would not speak, — 

Are you so strong, am I so weak. 

And yet, how much so e'er I yearn. 

Can I not follow, nor you turn ? 

tell me, friends, ye hardly hear ! 

O tell me, friends, ere words are o'er, — 
There's something in me sad and sore 
Repines, and underneath my eyes 



148 poettg af tje ^atj^mti grars. 

I feel a somewhat that would rise, — 
tell me, O my friends, and you, 
Do you feel nothing like it too ? 
O tell me, friends, ere words are o'er ! 

O tell me, friends that are no more, 
Do you, too, think ere it is o'er. 
Old times shall yet come round as erst. 
And we be friends, as we were first ? 
Or do you judge that all is vain. 
Except that rule that none complain ? 
O tell me, friends that are no more ! 

Arthur Hugh Clough, 



December — ^zhzn Eimes ISleben. 149 



SUNSETTING. 

VOU say — and sadness dims your eye 
The while you say it — that the light 

Of morning and of evening sky 

Is strangely different to your sight. 

You tell me that your folded hands 

Are shorn of power to work your will, 

Although you feel that life's demands 
Press as importunely still. 

You sigh that since creation's birth, 

When time its measured course began. 

Never upon the peopled earth 

Had man so much to do for man. 

And with clear vision reaching round 
Its spheric whole, so vast, so broad, 



150 Pfletrg 0f tjB (3at^mti gBSts. 

Laid open to its utmost bound, 

Had man so much to do for God. 

Content you — so you did the task 
The Master set at morning's prime, 

With zeal that never paused to ask 
Space for the needed resting time. 

You fain would overtax your powers, 
And overstep wise Nature's laws ; 

Be sure this tender God of ours 

Knows when and where to make you pause. 

Some toiler waits your place to fill , 
This day that dies with yonder light 

Another day will follow still 

With room for radiance just as bright. 

You grieve to think you may not see 
Fulfilled all purposes begun ; 



Wztembtx — Bthzn Citnes lEkben. 151 

But does it matter who shall be 

The workers, so the work is done ? 

Turn your full gaze, then, to the west, 
That thus its golden luster may 

Crown with the aureole of its rest 
The evening of your perfect day. 

Margaret J. Preston. 

{In " The Congregaiionalist.") 



152 PoEtrg 0f tf)e (3ut\itxzti gears* 



TO AGE. 

Yl/"ELCOME, old friend ! These many years 

Have we lived door by door ; 
The Fates have laid aside their shears 

Perhaps for some few more. 

I was indocile at an age 

When better boys were taught, 
But thou at length hast made me sage, 

If I am sage in aught. 

Little I know from other men, 

Too little they from me, 
But thou hast pointed well the pen 

That writes these lines to thee. 

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, 
One vile, the other, vain ; 



©ecember — &zhm Eimm IBleben. 153 



One's scourge, the other's telescope, 
I shall not see again ; 

Rather what lies before my feet 

My notice shall engage. 
He who braved youth's dizzy heat 

Dreads not the frosts of age. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



154 Poettg 0f tf)e #at!jmti gears. 



IN THE EVENING. 

JWl Y love, when life was young, I knew 

But little what you were to be, 

A light more bounteous to me, 
While lengthening shadows grew. 
Have I been silent. Love ? or cold ? 

It may be you have little guessed 

All the strong love, half-unexpressed, — 
Stronger, as I grew old. 

But darling, wiien the day is done. 
And we together walk at peace. 
In that bright world, where sorrows cease, 

Beyond the set of sun ; 

What best of me you brought to light 
On this dark earth, shall there expand 
And each shall wholly understand 

What now is hid from sight. 

Hamilton Aide. 



^ztzmhzx — Sebm Ctmes ISleben. 155 



ONWARD AND HEAVENWARD. 

AA/OULD you be young again ? 

So would not I ; 
One tear to mem'ry given 

Onward I'd hie 
Life's dark flood forded o'er, 
All but at rest on shore, — 
Say, would you plunge once more 

With home so nigh ? 

If you might, would you now 

Retrace your way? 
Wander through stormy wilds. 

Faint and astray ? 
Night's gloomy watches spread. 
Morning all beaming red, 
Hope's smiles around us shed. 

Heavenward — away ! 



156 Poetrg of tfje (But^zxzti geatis. 

Where, then, are those dear ones, 

Our joy and delight ? 
Dear, and more dear, though now 

Hidden from sight, 
"Where they rejoice to be, 
There is the land for me ; 
Fly time — fly speedily ! 

Come, life and light ! 

Lady Nairn. 



JSecEmfiet — Se&en STimes lEleben. 157 



IJSr OLD AGE. 

Written on my eighty-seventh birthday, Feb. 13, 1892. 

AA/HAT is it now to live ? It is to breathe 

The air of Heaven, behold the pleasant earth, 

The shining rivers, the inconstant sea, 

Sublimity of mountains, wealth of clouds. 

And radiance o'er all of countless stars. 

It is to sit before the cheerful hearth 

With groups of friends and kindred, store of books, 

Rich heritage from ages past, 

Hold sweet communion, soul with soul. 
On things now past, or present, or to come, 
Or muse alone upon my earlier days. 

Unbind the scroll, wherein is writ 

The story of my busy life ; 
Mistakes too often, but successes more, 

And consciousness of duty done. 
It is to see with laughing eyes the play 

Of children sporting on the lawn. 



158 Poetts of t!je ^atl^mti gears. 

Or mark the eager strifes of men 

And nations, seeking each and all, 

Belike advantage to obtain 

Above their fellows ; such is man ! 
It is to feel the pulses quicken, as I hear 

Of great events near or afar, 

Whereon may turn perchance 
The fate of generations, ages hence. 
It is to rest with folded arms betimes. 

And so surrounded, so sustained. 

Ponder on what may yet befall 

In that unknown mysterious realm 
Which lies beyond the range of mortal ken, 
Where souls immortal do forever dwell ; 
Think of the loved ones who await me there. 
And without murmuring or inward grief, 

With mind unbroken and no fear. 
Calmly await the coming of the Lord. 

David Dudley Field. 

{In'''' The Independent.") 



ISecemfter — ^zhtn ^ime& ISle&en. 159 



DOWN THE SLOPE. 

\A/HO knoweth life but questions death 
With guessings of that dimmer day 
When one is slowly lift from clay 
On winged breath ? 

But man advances ; far and high 
His forces fly with lightning stroke ; 
Till, worn with years, his vigor broke, 
He turns to die : 

When lo ! he finds it still a life ; 
New ministration and new trust.* 
Along a happy way that's just 
Aside from strife. 

And all day following friendly feet 
That lead on bravely to the light. 



160 poetrg of tje (^after^ti gears. 

As one walks downward, strong and bright, 
The slanted street, — 

And feels earth's benedictions wide. 
Alike on forest, lake, or town ; 
Nor marks the slope, — he going down 
The sunniest side. 

bounteous natures everywhere ! 
Perchance at least one did not fear 
A change to cross from your love here 
To God's love there. 

Charlotte P. Hawes. 



UBzcemhex — <Scben ^imzQ iSleijett. 161 



LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR. 

r\ LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! 

We're growing old, we're growing old ; 
But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 

That hearts grow cold, that hearts grow cold. 
'T is long, long since our new love 

Made life divine, made life divine ; 
But age enricheth true love, 

Like noble wine, like noble wine. 

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, 

And take thy rest, and take thy rest; 

Mine arms around thee twine, dear. 

And make thy nest, and make thy nest, 

A many cares are pressing 

On this dear head, on this dear head ; 

But Sorrow's hands in blessing- 
Are surely laid, are surely laid. 



162 Poettg of tf)e (gatf)£retj g£arg» 

O lean thy life on mine, dear ! 

'T will shelter thee, 't will shelter thee ; 
Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, 

On my young tree, on my young tree ; 
And so till boughs are leafless. 

And song-birds flown, and song-birds flown, 
We'll twine, then lay us, griefless, 
Together down, together down. 

Gerald Massey. 



©ecember — ^zbzn Eitnes Eleben. 163 



OLD AGE AND DEATH. 

'T'HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ; 
So calm are we when passions are no more. 
For then we know how vain it was to boast 
Of fleeting things too certain to be lost. 

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
Conceal that emptiness which age decries. 
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 
Lets in new light through chinks that time has 
made. 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become. 
As they draw near to their eternal home. 
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
That stand upon the threshold of the new. 

Edmund Waller. 



164 J^fletrg oi tfje ^atfjereti gears. 



LIGHT AT EVENTIDE. 

" At evening time it shall be light." — Zech. 14-, 7. 

P\EAR Lord, Thy good and precious book seems 

written all for me ; 
Wherever I may open it, I find a word from Thee. 
My eyes are dim, but this one verse is pillow for 

the night, 
Thy promise that 'At Evening Time it shall be ' 

surely 'light.' 

It was not always light with me ; for many a sin- 
ful year 

I walked in darkness far from Thee ; but thou hast 
brought me near 

And washed me in Thy precious blood, and taught 
me by Thy grace. 

And lifted up on my poor soul the brightness of 
Thy face. 



©ecemfter — Seben Cimes 3£Ubm. 165 

My Savior died in darkness that I might live in 

light. 
He closed His eyes in death that mine might have 

the heavenly sight ; 
He gave up all His glory to bring it down to me, 
And took the sinner's place that He the sinner's 

Friend might be. 

His Spirit shines upon His Word, and makes it 

sweet indeed, 
Just like a shining lamp held up beside me as I 

read; 
And brings it to my mind again alone upon my bed, 
Till all abroad within my heart the love of God is 

shed. 

I've nearly passed the shadows, and the sorrows 

here below ; 
A little while — a little while, and he will come, I 

know. 



166 Pflctrg of t!je (^atftmtJ geatg. 

And take me to the glory that I think is very near, 
Where I shall see Him face to face and His kind 
welcome hear. 

And now my loving Jesus is my Sight at Eventide, 
The welcome Guest that enters in for ever to abide ; 
He never leaves me in the dark, but leads me all 

the way, — 
So it is light at Evening Time, and soon it will be 

Day! 

Frances Ridley Havergal. 



liecember — ^zbtn Eimz& lEIebm. 167 



LIFE. 

T IFE ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me's a secret yet. 

Life I we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'T is hard to part when friends are dear. 
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time ; 

Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 
Bid me Good Morning. 

Anna S. Barbauld. 



168 Poetry oi t]}t (3ai]itxeti gears. 



PARTING WORDS. 

'And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh." — Gen. 

,26. 

I ET me go, the day is breaking, 

Dear companions, let me go ; 
We have spent a night of waking 

In the wilderness below ; 
Upward now I bend my way. 
Part we hear at break of day. 

Let me go, I may not tarry. 

Wrestling thus with doubts and fears ; 
Angels wait my soul to carry, 

Where my risen Lord appears ; 
Friends and kindred, weep not so, 
If ye love me, let me go. 

We have travelled long together. 

Hand in hand, and heart in heart. 



©cccmijET — Bebcn ^Timcs IBIebm. 169 



Both through fair and stormy weather ; 

And 't is hard, 't is hard to part. 
Yet we must ; ' Farewell ! ' to you : 
Answer one and all, ' Adieu ! ' 

'T is not darkness gathering round me. 
Which withdraws me from your sight ; 

Walls of flesh no more can bound me. 
But, translated into light, 

Like the lark on mounting wing, 

Though unseen, you hear me sing. 

Heaven's broad day hath o'er me broken, 
Far beyond earth's span of sky ; 

Am I dead ? — Nay, by this token. 
Know that I have ceased to die ; 

Would you solve the mystery. 

Come up hither, — come and see ! 

James Montgomery. 



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